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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740342">Adversaries</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus'>sirenofodysseus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mentalist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M, Food Porn, No CBI, No Serial Killers, Red John owns a bakery, The bakery!AU nobody wanted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:28:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Jane could attempt to interrupt her again, which she knew he would, Grace blurted out, “there’s a new bakery in town!” She watched Lisbon blink and Jane move, so he was sitting upright on his couch. </p><p>...or the fic where a new bakery opens in town. Jane tries to keep Lisbon calm, Lisbon's over Jane's crap, and Van Pelt's just trying to wrap her head around how Rigsby loves her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Grace Van Pelt/Craig O'Laughlin, Patrick Jane &amp; Teresa Lisbon, Wayne Rigsby/Grace Van Pelt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Adversaries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659004">The Couch</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus">sirenofodysseus</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The sequel to The Couch that nobody asked for, but everyone got!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Waving a quick </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello </span>
  </em>
  <span>to both Cho behind the register and Rigsby in the kitchen, Grace hurried into the bosses’ office without calling out to find Lisbon and Jane in another one of their daily arguments.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it, Jane,” Lisbon told Jane, her back to Grace as the brunette fiddled around with the office computer. Jane, unsurprisingly, was lying down on his favorite leather couch. “For the unforeseeable future, you’re no longer allowed to order any of our supplies.” Jane, noticing her presence, smiled up at her warmly, before he glanced back toward Lisbon. “Thanks to you and the bundles of cherries you purchased in bulk, my kitchen will identify as a crime scene.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>kitchen,” Jane reminded her, grinning. Grace couldn’t see Lisbon’s face, but she had a feeling the brunette was rolling her eyes. “Also, let’s discuss why you’re truly upset. I didn’t purchase any bundles of strawberries this time, and dare I say it, you’re feeling a little hurt.” Lisbon muttered something, which Grace assumed wasn’t too polite before Jane glanced in her direction again from the couch. “Right, Grace?” Immediately, she threw up her hands in response. She had learned to stay out of their arguments, especially after Jane had gotten himself ‘fired’ for improper equipment usage. Lisbon turned from her computer screen to glare at Jane before she turned in her desk chair to glance at Grace.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Van Pelt, why are you here?” Lisbon asked, sounding semi-surprised. “Today’s your day off, isn’t it?” Grace nodded. She had been attempting to enjoy her day off with a nice run, but a chance encounter had dashed all her plans. Grace opened her mouth to answer Lisbon’s question when Jane’s voice interrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought it was quite obvious, Lisbon,” Jane replied. Lisbon eyed him, as did Grace. “Why do our employees always come to speak to us? They want raises.” Grace narrowed her eyes. She’d only been working at the bakery for a few months and didn’t feel as though she had the right to ask for a raise. Lisbon’s visual roll of the eyes told her though, she didn’t believe Jane at all.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the actual reason, Van Pelt?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before Jane could attempt to interrupt her again, which she knew he would, Grace blurted out, “there’s a new bakery in town!” She watched Lisbon blink and, Jane move, so he was sitting upright on his couch. Without bothering to wait for a response, she hurried through her story—she had been out for an early morning run when she had run into a fellow baker, Craig—before the two could respond. “He then invited me back to his—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Rigsby’s going to be absolutely devastated, Grace.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>what you’re concerned with?” Lisbon asked him, as she spun in her chair toward him. “You’re concerned with the fact that Rigsby’s in love with Van Pelt—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Grace looked onward in surprise. “Excuse me? He’s what?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lisbon ignored her. “—instead of the pressing matter that there’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>new </span>
  </em>
  <span>coffee shop in town?” Grace continued to stare at her boss in surprise. Wayne was in love with </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>? “Before you have an aneurism, Van Pelt, what is the competitor’s name?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“A little competition never hurt anyone, Lisbon,” Jane pointed out with a wry smile. Lisbon eyed him, while Grace continued to inwardly panic. “Whether it’s regarding matters of the heart, like our young bakers here.” Jane gestured toward Grace before he glanced toward Lisbon. “Or regarding matters of business, competition can be a wonderful tool of motivation. Some of the best things, after all, have come out of a little competition.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Or,” Lisbon replied, mimicking his tone, which had Jane chuckling. “We’ll just all lose our jobs.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he added, still smiling, “there’s that too.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>::::</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“They call themselves </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Lisbon asked Jane after Van Pelt had closed the office door behind her. Unsurprisingly to Lisbon, Jane had gone back to reclining on his couch. “And I thought your naming suggestions had been dreadful.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane chuckled. “I see that I’m still in the doghouse for sending our vendor license in as </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Great EsCake</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Lisbon scowled. It had taken a full year, after they had opened, to change the name on their vendor license from </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Great EsCake </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Couch</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You heard Grace, Teresa. Their equivalent to you is named Craig!” Lisbon watched him shake his head, which caused her to raise her eyebrows toward him. “My equivalent apparently doesn’t even have a first name, as everyone just calls him Mister John.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lisbon had to fight against rolling her eyes. “Let me get this straight. You’re more worried about the proprietor’s name than the fact we’ve got competition?” Jane said nothing, and Lisbon threw her hands up into the air. “Are you hearing yourself, Jane? Do you know how insane you sound?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Craig, Teresa,” Jane repeated slowly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Craig</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” In another circumstance, she would have laughed at how he’d over annunciated the name, but the idea of losing everything worried her. They’d sunk all their life savings into The Couch, and she’d be damned if </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association</span>
  </em>
  <span> were going to run them out of business. Lisbon glanced at her computer, prepared to cyber-stalk their competitor when Jane continued, “Teresa.” She ignored him. “Lisbon, you have nothing to worry about. Give them a month, and they’ll be on their last leg. Trust me.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “When have I ever steered you wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lisbon side-eyed him. “Do you want me to answer that?” Jane replied by laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>::::</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The first regular customer of theirs to “succumb to the dark side,” as Rigsby had put it, had been Lorelei. One day, the brunette had been in the café flirting with Jane—fluttering her dark eyelashes and laughing at all his horrible jokes. Only to have had disappeared the next, something Grace had pointed out, after she’d been bussing tables before close.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane had merely waved her concern off. “Lorelei’s a college student, Grace.” He had paused to eat one of Rigsby’s strawberry-banana confections, against Lisbon’s strict </span>
  <em>
    <span>do not eat, Jane </span>
  </em>
  <span>policy. “I’m positive she, like you, has a life outside of this place and us.” With another pastry shoved into his mouth, he glanced at the wall calendar. “It’s the beginning of May; she’s probably surviving on burnt coffee to get through her exams, so she can come back to our culinary delights. Don’t worry, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But by the following Tuesday, Lorelei still hadn’t returned.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was also then while organizing the mail that Jane had tried to doom to the blender, Lisbon learned of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> promotion via a bright, red flyer.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <span>BUY 1 PASTY, GET 1 BEVERAGE FREE!</span>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still think everything’s alright?” Lisbon asked dryly as she threw the crinkled flyer in Jane’s face. To his credit, he didn’t overdramatize any type of injury.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane blinked at the flyer twice before he laughed. “They misspelled pastry.” Lisbon rolled her eyes at his amusement. They weren’t the grammar police, honestly. “Would </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>eat a place that sells pasties? Where’s the health inspector when you need them?” Instead of responding, Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re worrying far too much, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Spinning around in her desk chair, she kicked out at him, and he groaned. “You don’t worry enough, asshole.” Lisbon glanced back at her computer screen, spreadsheet after spreadsheet open. They weren’t failing—but they weren’t succeeding either. “Maybe we could—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” Jane interrupted as he moved to sit upwards on his couch. Lisbon threw her hands into the air. “Lisbon. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Teresa</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She glanced at him. “We agreed; no coupons or promotions.” They had, she begrudgingly agreed, but they also hadn’t had the competition in the beginning either. They’d been uncontested. “I’m not throwing in the towel, just because a bakery with the most horrific name is poaching our customers.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>admit—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I never said they weren’t,” he responded with a grin. “But Teresa,” his voice softened. “You have nothing to worry about. Neither do Rigsby, Cho, or Van Pelt. Remember what I told you when we first started this?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Tea is better than coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well yes,” Jane admitted with a hefty nod. “I still stand by that, wholeheartedly, but also?” He paused to take her hands in his, which had her fighting a smile. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Couch </span>
  </em>
  <span>is both of us.” Although his words were foolish (and she logically knew that too), she couldn’t help but attempt to believe him for once. He held onto her hands a moment longer before he started to move from his couch. “Come on. I have an idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, the moment was ruined.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lisbon side-eyed him. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Proving to you why we’ll be alright,” Jane answered, still with his grin. “So, it’s off to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association </span>
  </em>
  <span>we go!”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait.” Lisbon resisted her sudden urge to punch him. “We’re doing what?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>::::</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association</span>
  </em>
  <span> was nothing like </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Couch</span>
  </em>
  <span>; disorganized, cramped, and poorly lit, Jane couldn’t see the appeal. With Lisbon next to him, without any disguise, as she had deemed the idea crazy, they patiently waited in line to order from the barista.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Rebecca, the olive-complexed barista greeted them from behind a counter, which had been plastered with brightly colored flyers. “What can I get for you both today?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane took a moment to peruse the selection of bakery items: from orange-and-banana pastries to chocolate-cherry scones, and finally, to the special of the day, which happened to be red smiley face cookies.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll take two of the fine-looking daily specials, my dear.” Rebecca smiled before she bent down to retrieve two of the cookies. Lisbon pulled out her wallet and forked over the $7.50, much to her apparent annoyance as he’d “conveniently” forgotten his wallet at the shop.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You owe me half of $7.50,” Lisbon told him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll get your money, woman,” Jane answered before he led her over to one of the circular tables. Sitting down, he glanced down at the cookie. Such a simple item with such simple decorations, but he knew Rigsby and Van Pelt could outbake </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>staff. “Now, eat your cookie.” Lisbon scowled. “Oh, come on, Lisbon. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>sugar.” </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I love things that aren’t doused in icing,” she commented coolly, and Jane couldn’t help but chuckle at her response. “This thing reminds me of the time you tried to sell macaroons made of pure icing to our customers.” Jane smiled before he shoved the cookie into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Still warm, he noted it wasn’t half-bad—but he’d had pastries designed by Rigsby and Grace, who could easily bake circles around </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> staff. “I’ve had better,” he told her after he had wiped the crumbs from the corner of his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well that’s quite disappointing, Mister Jane,” a voice from behind them spoke. Jane turned slightly in his chair to glance at the newcomer, a gray-haired man, who wore nothing but black. “My staff only makes the best.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hopefully, you didn’t bet on that,” Jane told him with a sharp smile. Without waiting for introductions, Jane knew the man before him was the infamous Mister John. “I don’t think we’ve quite had the privilege of meeting yet. I’m Patrick Jane from </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Couch</span>
  </em>
  <span> and this,” he motioned toward Lisbon, “is my partner-in-all-sugary-things, Teresa Lisbon.” Lisbon scowled at him, and he smiled widely. “Don’t mind her. She becomes less bitter with time.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Mister John laughed. “It’s quite alright. Craig’s the same way, honestly.” He paused to shake both of their hands. “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Mister R. John, owner of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Is the R short for Richard?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Randy?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Ralph?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Lisbon elbowed him without warning. “Jane! Stop antagonizing him!”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re having a friendly conversation here, Lisbon,” Jane argued before he glanced back to Mister John. “Aren’t we, Ryan?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“How about you and Ms. Lisbon just call me Mister John, Patrick?” The proprietor asked, smiling widely. Jane glanced at the man’s cat-got-a-canary grin, which left him feeling somewhat unsettled. Something, Jane determined, was way off about Mister R. John.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“So, tell me, Mister John,” Jane replied, trying to match the man’s half-cocked smile. “How many employees do you employ?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Mister John glanced upwards, as though he were in thought. “Many.” He then glanced back, downwards at Jane. “You didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>come here to discuss my employees, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane shook his head, still smiling. “We’re simply here about a cookie, as even we must leave the office occasionally.” Mister John nodded in turn before he excused himself to the next table full of people. Out of Mister John’s earshot, Jane glanced to Lisbon. “He might actually be ex-mafia.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lisbon answered with the roll of her eyes. Something he figured she’d do, considering she was never entirely on board with his conspiracy theories. “Your go-to answer cannot be ex-mafia every time you meet someone remotely imposing.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane scoffed at her answer. “He won’t give us his name, Lisbon. Hence he’s ex-mafia.” He paused. Ex-mafia. Ex-criminal. Ex-something threatening? All of it seemed to fit the mysterious owner of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bakery Association</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Or,” he continued at Lisbon’s glare. “He’s hiding something, probably dastardly.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it matter?” Lisbon asked, sounding tired.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jane continued to glance at her. “No, Lisbon, not at all; it doesn’t matter that the competition was once ex-mafia. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>also </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t matter that the competition could easily set fire to our—”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Without warning, Lisbon cuffed the back of Jane’s head. “You idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>(Yeah, Jane decided later, he probably deserved that.)</span>
</p>
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